Beauty and the Bastard
by BruiserweightFanatic
Summary: Paige x Pete Dunne AU. Non-wrestling. Pete has returned to Chicago from Birmingham to take a vital role in his family's massive media business. He never expected that the assistant who'd been helping him from abroad was the gorgeous—completely infuriating—creature he now has to see every day. Rated M for mature themes, and loads of smut.
1. Chapter One: Hello Mr England

**A/N: This is a non-wrestling AU. A crackship fic between both of my favorite British wrestlers Paige and Pete Dunne. Most characters I could not address as their real name in this story just. For example William Regal, I just could not call him Darren Mathews in this story. But without any further ado, lets get to the story. Warning, there is smut below.**

One

My father always said the way to learn the job you want is to spend every second watching someone do it.

"To get the job at the top, you've got to start at the bottom," he told me. "Become the person the CEO can't live without. Be their right-hand man. Learn their world, and they'll snatch you up the second you finish your degree."

I had become irreplaceable. And I'd definitely become the Right Hand. It just so happened that in this case, I was the right hand that most days wanted to slap the damn face.

My boss, Mr. Peter England. Beautiful Bastard.

My stomach clenched tightly at the thought of him: tall, gorgeous, and entirely evil. He was the most self-righteous, pompous prick I'd ever met. I'd hear all of the other women in the office gossip about his escapades and wonder if a nice face was all it took. But my father also said, "You realize early in life that beauty is only skin-deep, and ugly goes straight to the bone." I'd had my fair share of unpleasant men in the past few years, dated a few in secondary school and uni. But this one took the cake.

"Well, hello Miss Knight." Mr. England stood in the doorway to my office that served as an anteroom to his. His thick Brummie accent was laced with honey, but it was all wrong . . . like honey left to freeze and crack on ice.

After spilling water on my phone, dropping my earrings into the garbage disposal, being rear-ended on the interstate, and having to wait for the cops to come and tell us what we both already knew—that it was the other guy's fault—the last thing I needed this morning was a grumpy Mr. England.

Too bad for me he didn't come in any other flavor.

I gave him my usual. "Good morning, Mr. England," hoping he would give me his usual curt nod in return.

But when I tried to slip past him, he murmured, "Indeed? 'Morning,' Miss Knight? What time is it in your little world?"

I stopped and met his cold stare. Without the heels he was a good three inches taller than me, and before working for him I'd never felt so small. I'd worked for England Media Group for six years. But since his return to the family business nine months ago, I'd taken to wearing heels just so I could approach him near eye level.

"I had a bit of a disaster morning. It won't happen again," I said, relieved that my voice came out steady. I had never been late, not once, but leave it to him to make a thing of it the first time it happened. I managed to slip past him, put my purse and coat in my closet, and power up my computer. I tried to act like he wasn't standing in the doorway, watching every move I made.

"'Disaster morning' is quite an apt description for what I've had to deal with in your absence. I spoke to William Regal personally to smooth over the fact that he didn't get the signed contracts when promised: nine a.m., East Coast time. I had to call Stephanie McMahon personally to let her know we were, in fact, going to proceed with the proposal as written. In other words, I've done your job and mine this morning. Surely, even with a 'disaster morning' you can manage eight a.m.? Some of us get up and start workin' before the brunch hour."

I glanced at him, antagonizing me, glaring, arms crossed over his broad chest—and all because I was an hour late. I blinked away, very deliberately not staring at the way his dark tailored suit stretched across his shoulders. I had made the mistake of visiting the hotel gym during a convention the first month we worked together and walked in to find him sweaty and shirtless next to the treadmill. He had a beautifully unpolished face; feral and scarred, and incredible hair that he kept nearly combed up in one of those fashionable high-knots. The kind of hair you'd want to pull during a good fuck. That's what the girls downstairs claimed, and according to them, it earned its title. The image of him wiping his chest with his shirt was forever burned into my brain.

Of course, he'd had to ruin it by opening his mouth: "It's nice to see you finally takin' an interest in your physical fitness, Miss Knight."

Cunt.

"I'm sorry, Mr. England," I said with just a hint of bite. "I understand the burden I placed on you by making you manage a fax machine and pick up a telephone. As I mentioned, it won't happen again."

"You're right, it won't," he replied, cocky smirk firmly in place.

If only he would keep his mouth shut, he'd be perfect. A piece of duct tape would do the trick. I had some in my desk that I'd occasionally pull out and fondle, hoping someday I could put it to good use.

"And just so ya' don't allow this incident to slip your memory, I'd like to see the full status tables for the Regal, Saint, and McMahon projects on my desk by five. And then you're going to make up the hour lost this morning by doin' a mock board presentation of the Levesque account for me in the conference room at six. If you're going to manage this account, you're goin' to prove to me that ya' know what the bloody hell you're doing."

My eyes widened as I watched him turn away, slamming his office door behind him. He knew damn well that I was ahead of schedule with this project, which also served as my MBA thesis. I still had months to finish my slides once the contracts were signed . . . which they weren't—they hadn't even been fully drafted. Now, with everything else on my plate, he wanted me to put together a mock board presentation in . . . I looked at my watch. Great, seven and a half hours, if I skipped lunch. I opened the Levesque file and got down to it.

* * *

As everyone began filtering out for lunch, I remained glued to my desk with my coffee and a bag of trail mix I'd bought from the vending machine. Normally I'd bring leftovers or leave with the other interns to grab something, but time was not on my side today. I heard the outer office door open and looked up, smiling as Amanda Saccomanno walked in. Mandy was in the same MBA internship program at England Media Group that I was, though she worked in accounting.

"Ready for lunch?" she asked.

"I'm gonna have to skip it. This is the day from hell." I looked at her apologetically, and her smile turned into a smirk.

"Day from hell, or boss from hell?" She took a seat on the edge of my desk. "I heard he was on a bit of a rampage this morning."

I gave her a knowing look. Mandy didn't work for him, but she knew all about Peter England. As the youngest son of company founder Thomas England, and with a notoriously short fuse, he was a living legend in the building. "Even if there were two of me, I wouldn't be able to get this finished in time."

"You sure you don't want me to bring you back something?" Her eyes moved in the direction of his office. "A hit man? Some holy water?"

I laughed. "I'm good."

Mandy smiled and left the office. I'd just finished off the last of my coffee when I bent down, noting a run in my stockings. "And on top of everythin' else," I began, hearing Mandy return, "I've already snagged these. Actually, if you're goin' somewhere there's chocolate, bring me back fifty pounds, so I can eat my feelings later."

I glanced up and saw that it wasn't Mandy standing there. My cheeks flushed red and I pulled my skirt back down.

"I'm sorry, Mr. England, I—"

"Miss Knight, since you and the other office girls have plenty of time to discuss problematic lingerie, in addition to putting together the Levesque presentation, I need you to also run down to the Gallagher office and retrieve the market analysis and segmentation for McMahon." He adjusted his collar, looking at his reflection in my window. "Do you think you can manage that?"

Did he just call me an "office girl"? Sure, as part of my internship I often did some basic assistant work for him, but he knew damn well I had worked for this company for years before receiving a JT Miller scholarship to Northwestern. I was four months away from getting my business degree.

Getting my degree and getting the hell out from under you, I thought. I looked up to meet his blazing eyes. "I'll be happy to ask Mandy if she—"

"It wasn't a suggestion," he cut me off. "I'd like you to pick them up." He gazed at me for a moment with a clenched jaw before turning on his heel and storming back to his office, pulling the door closed roughly behind him.

What the fuck was his problem? Was slamming doors like a teenager really necessary? I grabbed my blazer from the back of the chair and began making my way to our satellite office a few buildings down.

When I returned, I knocked on his door but there was no response. I tried the knob. Locked. He was probably having a late-afternoon quickie with some trust fund princess while I ran around Los Angeles like an insane person. I shoved the manila folder through the mail slot, hoping the papers scattered everywhere and he'd have to get down and sort them himself. Would serve him right. I rather liked the image of him on his knees on the floor, gathering scattered documents. Then again, knowing him, he would call me into that sterile hellhole to clean it up while he watched.

* * *

Four hours later I had the status updates complete, my slides mostly in order, and I was almost hysterically laughing with how awful this day was. I found myself plotting a very bloody and drawn-out murder of the kid at The Copy Stop. A simple job, that's all I had asked. Make some copies, bind some things. Should have been a piece of cake. In and out. But no. It had taken two hours.

I raced down the darkened hall of the now-empty building, the presentation materials clutched haphazardly in my arms, and glanced at my watch. Six twenty. Mr. England was going to have my arse. I was twenty minutes late. As I experienced this morning, he hated late. "Late" was a word not found in the Peter England Dickhead Dictionary. Along with "heart," "kindness," "compassion," "lunch break," or "thank you."

So there I was, running through the empty halls in my stilt-like Italian pumps, racing to the executioner.

Breathe, Paige. He can smell fear.

As I neared the conference room, I tried to calm my breathing and slowed to a walk. Soft light shone from beneath the closed door. He was definitely in there, waiting for me. Carefully, I attempted to smooth my hair and clothing while tidying the bundle of documents in my arms. Taking a deep breath, I knocked on the door.

"Come in."

I walked into the warmly lit space. The conference room was huge; one wall was filled with floor-to-ceiling windows that gave a beautiful view of the Chicago cityscape from eighteen stories up. Dusk darkened the sky outside, and skyscrapers speckled the horizon with their lighted windows. In the center of the room stood a large heavy wood conference table, and facing me from the head of the table was Mr. England.

He sat there, suit jacket hanging on the chair behind him, tie loosened, crisp white shirtsleeves rolled up to his elbows, and chin resting on his steepled fingers. His glacier optics were boring into mine, but he said nothing.

"Apologies, Mr. England," I said, my voice wavering with my still labored breathing, "The print job took—" I stopped. Excuses wouldn't help my situation. And besides, I wasn't going to let him blame me for something I had no control over. He could kiss my arse. With my newfound bravery in place, I lifted my chin and walked over to where he sat.

Without meeting his gaze, I sorted through my papers and placed a copy of the presentation on the table before us.

"Are you ready for me to begin?"

He didn't respond aloud, his eyes piercing my brave front. This would be a lot easier if he wasn't so gorgeous. Instead, he gestured toward the materials before him, urging me to continue.

I cleared my throat and began my presentation. As I moved through the different aspects of the proposal, he stayed silent, staring directly at his copy. Why was he so calm? His temper tantrums I could handle. But the eerie silence? It was unnerving.

I was leaning over the table, gesturing toward a set of graphs, when it happened.  
"Their timeline for the first milestone is a little ambi—" I stopped midsentence, my breath caught in my throat. His hand pressed gently into my lower back before sliding down, settling on the curve of my ass. In the nine months I had worked for him, he had never intentionally touched me.

This was most definitely intentional.

The heat from his hand burned through my skirt and into my skin. Every muscle in my body tensed, and it felt like my insides were liquefying. What the hell was he doing? My brain screamed at me to push his hand off, to tell him to never touch me again, but my body had other ideas. My nipples hardened, and I clenched my jaw in response. Traitor nipples.

While my heart pounded in my chest, at least half a minute passed, and neither of us said anything as his hand moved down to my thigh, caressing. Our breathing and the muted noise of the city below were the only sounds in the still air of the conference room.

"Turn around, Miss Knight." His quiet voice broke the silence and I straightened my back, eyes facing forward. Slowly I turned, his hand skimming across me and sliding to my hip. I could feel the way his hand spread from his fingertips on my lower back all the way to where his thumb pressed against the soft skin just in front of my hipbone. I looked to meet his eyes, which looked intently back at me.

I could see his chest rising and falling, each breath deeper than the last. A muscle twitched in his sharp jaw as his thumb began to move, slowly sliding back and forth, his eyes never leaving mine. He was waiting for me to stop him; there had been plenty of time for me to shove him away, or simply turn and leave. But I had too many feelings to sort out before I could react. I had never felt this way, and I had never expected to feel this about him. I wanted to slap him, and then pull him up by his shirt and lick his neck.

"What are you thinking?" he whispered, eyes somehow both mocking and anxious.

"I'm still tryin' to figure that out."

With those eyes still locked to mine, he began to slide his hand lower. His fingers ran down my thigh, to the hem of my skirt. He moved it up so his fingertips traced the strap of my garter belt, the lace edge of one thigh-high stocking. A thick finger slipped beneath the thin fabric and pulled it down slightly. I sucked in a sharp breath, feeling suddenly like I was melting from the outside in.

How could I let my body react like this? I still wanted to slap him, but now, more than that, I wanted him to keep going. The heavy ache between my legs was building. He reached the edge of my panties and slipped his fingers under the fabric. I felt him slide against my skin and graze my clit before pushing his finger inside me, and I bit my lip trying, unsuccessfully, to stifle my groan. When I looked down at him, beads of sweat were forming on his brow.

"Fuck," he growled quietly. "You're wet."

His eyes fell closed and he seemed to be waging the same internal battle I was. I glanced down at his lap and could see him straining against the smooth fabric of his pants. Without opening his eyes, he withdrew his finger and fisted the thin lace of my panties in his hand. He was shaking as he looked up at me, fury clear in his expression. In one quick movement he tore them off, the rip of the fabric echoing in the silence.

He pulled my hips roughly, lifting me up onto the cold table and spreading my legs in front of him. I gave an involuntary groan as his fingers returned, sliding between my legs and pushing into me again. I despised this man in a singularly sharp way, but my body was betraying me; I craved more of what he was doing. Damn if he wasn't good at this. His weren't the gentle loving touches I was accustomed to. Here was a man used to getting what he wanted, and it turned out that right now, what he wanted was me. My head fell to the side as I leaned back on my elbows, feeling my impending orgasm approaching fast.

To my absolute horror I actually whimpered, "Oh, please."

He stopped moving, pulling his fingers back and holding them in a fist before him. I sat up, grabbing the collar of his shirt and pulling his mouth roughly against mine. His lips felt as perfect as they looked, firm and smooth. I'd never been kissed by someone who clearly knew every single angle and dip and teasing move to make me almost completely lose my mind.

I bit his lower lip as my hands made quick work down to the front of his pants, whipping his belt free of the loops. "You better be ready to finish what you started."

He made a low, angry noise deep in his throat and took my blouse in his hands, ripping it open, the silver buttons skittering across the long conference table.

He slid his hands up my ribs and over my breasts, thumbs slipping back and forth across my taut nipples, his dark stare fixated on my expression the entire time. His hands were big, and rough almost to the point of pain, but instead of wincing or backing off, I pushed into his palms wanting more, and harder.

He growled, fingers tightening. It occurred to me I might bruise, and for a sick moment I hoped I did. I wanted a way to remember this feeling, of being completely sure of what my body wanted, entirely unleashed.

He leaned close enough to bite my shoulder, whispering, "You fuckin' tease."  
Unable to get close enough, I quickened my pace on his zipper, shoving his pants and his boxers to the floor. I gave his cock a hard squeeze, feeling him pulse against my palm.

The way he hissed my last name—"Knight"—should have sent a rush of fury through me, but I only felt one thing right now: pure, unadulterated lust. He forced my skirt up my thighs and pushed me back on the conference table. Before I could utter a single word, he took hold of my ankles, grabbed his cock, and took a step forward, thrusting deep inside me.

I couldn't even be horrified by the loud moan I let out—he felt better than anything.

"What's that?" he hissed through clenched teeth, his hips slapping against my thighs, driving him deep inside. "Never been fucked like this before, have ya'? Ya' wouldn't be such a tease if you were being properly fucked."

Who did he think he was? And why the hell did it turn me on so much that he was right? I had never had sex anywhere but on a bed, a car, a park, or a public restroom and it never felt like this.

"I've had better," I taunted.

He snarled. "Eyes on me."

"No."

He pulled out just as I was about to come. At first I thought he was actually going to leave me this way, until he grabbed my arms and yanked me up off the table, lips and tongue pressing against mine.

"Look at me," he said again. And, finally, with him no longer inside me, I could. He blinked once, slowly, long dark lashes brushing against his cheek, and then said, "Ask me to make you come."

His tone was all wrong. It was almost a question, but his words were just like him—all bastard. I did want him to make me come. More than anything. But I'd be damned if I'd ever ask him for anything.

I dropped my voice and stared back at him. "You're a cunt, Mr. England."

His faint smile told me that whatever he'd needed from me, he got. I wanted to slam my knees up into his balls, but then I wouldn't get more of what I really wanted.

"Say please, Miss Knight."

"Please, go fuck yourself."

The next thing I felt was the cold window against my breasts, and I groaned at the intense contrast in temperature between it and his skin. I was on fire; every part of me wanted to feel his rough touch.

"At least you're consistent," he snarled into my ear before biting my shoulder. He kicked at my feet. "Spread your legs."

I parted my legs and without hesitation he pulled my hips back and reached between us before thrusting forward into me.

"You like the cold?"

"Yes."

"Devious, filthy girl. You like being watched, don't you?" he murmured, taking my earlobe between his teeth. "You love that all of Chicago can look up here and see you gettin' fucked, and you loving every minute of it with your pretty tits pressed against the glass."

"Stop talking, you're ruining it." Though he wasn't. Not even close. His deep voice was doing wicked things to me.

But he just chuckled in my ear and probably noticed the way I shivered at the sound. "Ya' want them to see you come?"

I groaned in response, unable to form words with each repeated thrust into me, pressing me further against the glass.  
"Say it. You want to come, Miss Knight? Answer me or I'll stop and make you suck me off instead," he hissed, driving his cock deeper and deeper inside me with every thrust.

The part of me that hated him was dissolving like sugar on my tongue, and the part that wanted everything he had to give me was growing, hot and demanding.  
"Just tell me." He leaned forward, sucked my earlobe between his lips and then gave it a sharp bite. "I promise I'll give it to you."

"Please," I said, closing my eyes to shut out everything else and just feel him. "Please. Yes."

He reached around, moving his fingertips across my clit with the perfect pressure, the perfect rhythm. I could feel his sadistic smile press into the back of my neck, and when he opened his mouth and pressed his teeth to my skin, I was done for. Warmth spread down my spine, around my hips, and between my legs, jerking me back into him. My hands slammed against the glass, my entire body quaking from the orgasm that was rushing over me, leaving me gasping for air. When it finally subsided, he pulled out and spun me around to face him, ducking his head to suck my neck, my jaw, my lower lip.

"Say thank you," he whispered.

I dug my hands into his high-knot tugged hard on his hair, hoping I could get some reaction out of him, wanting to see if he was in control or delusional. What are we doing?

He groaned, leaning into my hands and kissing up and down my neck, pressing his erection into my stomach. "Now make me feel good."

I released one hand and brought it down to his cock and began stroking him. He was heavy, and thick, and perfect in my palm. I wanted to tell him, but I'd be damned if I ever let him know how amazing he felt. Instead, I pulled away from his lips, staring at him with hooded eyes.

"I'm gonna to make you come so hard you forget that you're supposed to be the world's biggest asshole," I growled, sliding down the glass before slowly taking his entire cock in my mouth and back against my throat. He tensed and let out a deep moan. I looked up at him, his palms and forehead resting on the glass, his eyes closed tight. He looked vulnerable, and he looked gorgeous in his abandon.

But he wasn't vulnerable. He was the biggest jerk on the planet and I was on my knees in front of him. No fucking way.

So instead of giving him what I knew he wanted, I stood up, pulled my skirt back down, and met his eyes. It was easier now, without him touching me and making me feel things he had no business doing.

The seconds ticked by, neither of us looking away.

"What the fuck do you think you're doing?" he rasped. "Get on your knees and open your mouth."

"Not a chance."

I pulled the front of my buttonless shirt together and walked out, praying my shaky legs wouldn't betray me. Grabbing my purse from my desk, I threw my blazer on, trying desperately to fasten the button with my trembling fingers. Mr. England still hadn't come out, and I ran to the elevator praying to God it would get there before I had to face him again.

I couldn't even let myself think about what happened until I was out of there. I'd let him fuck me, give me the most amazing orgasm of my life, and then I'd left him with his pants around his ankles in the company conference room with the worst case of blue balls known to any man. If this was someone else's life I would be high-fiving them so hard. Too bad it wasn't.

Shit.

The doors opened and I entered, quickly pushing the button and watching as each floor counted down. As soon as the elevator reached the lobby I raced out and down the hall. I briefly heard the security guard say something about working late, but I just waved and sped past him.

With each step the ache between my legs reminded me of the events of the last hour. As I reached my car I unlocked it with the remote, pulled open the door, and collapsed into the safety of the leather seats. I looked up at myself in the rearview mirror.

What in the fuck was that?

* * *

 **A/N: Whew what an experience. Bet you weren't expecting that were you? Hey, if I get a decent amount of reviews I'll be sure to post the next chapter. I want to make this into a multi chapter series, but I need to know if the story is something you guys want to keep reading! So if you can leave a review or any kind of feedback, it'll help motivate me to keep up the content. Thank you!**


	2. Chapter Two: What Goes Around

**A/N: Thank you for the small set of reviews I received. I hope to receive more down the road I want to keep this series going for quite a while.**

 **Looks like Pete's looking for a little retaliation for the stunt Paige pulled. Did I mention this there's smut?**

* * *

Two

Christ. I'm a fuckin' fool.

I'd been starin' at my ceiling since I woke up thirty minutes ago. Brain: a mess. Dick: hard.

Well, hard again.

I scowled at the ceiling. It didn't matter how many times I'd have a wank after she left me last night, it never seemed to go away. And though I didn't think it was possible, it was worse than the hundreds of other times I'd woken up this way. Because this time, I knew what I was missing. And she hadn't even let me come.

Nine months. Nine bloody months of morning wood, wankin' off, and endless fantasies about someone I didn't even want. Well, no that wasn't completely true. I wanted her. I wanted her more than any woman I'd ever seen. The big problem was I also despised her.

And she despises me too. I mean, she really hated me. In all my twenty-four years, I had never met someone who pushed my buttons like Saraya Knight. Just her name made me twitch. The treacherous bitch. I stared down at where I tented my sheets. This appendage got me into this mess to begin with. I rubbed my hands across my face and sat up.

Why couldn't I just keep it in my fuckin' trousers? I'd managed for almost a year. And it had worked. I kept my distance, ordered her around, hell, even I'll admit I'd been a bastard. And then I just lost it. Fucksakes, all it took was one moment, sitting in that quiet room, her smell all around me and that skirt, her arse in my face. I snapped.

I was sure that if I just had her once, it would be disappointing and the wanting would be over. I'd finally have some peace. But here I was, in my bed, hard, as if I hadn't come in weeks. I looked at the clock, and it had only been four hours.

* * *

I took a quick shower, scrubbing myself roughly as if to remove any trace of her left from last night. This was going to stop, this had to stop. Peter England didn't act like some horny teenager, and I certainly did not fuck around in my office. The last thing I needed was a clingy woman ruinin' everythin'. I couldn't allow Miss Knight to have this control over me.

Everythin' was so much better before I knew what I was missing. For as awful as that was, this was a million times worse.

I was making my way into my office when she walked in. The way she left last night, practically sprinting out the door, I figured one of two scenarios awaited me. Either she would be making eyes at me, thinkin' that last night meant something, that we meant somethin'. Or she'd have my arse.

If word got out about what we'd done, not only could I lose my job, but I could lose everythin' I'd worked for. And yet, as much as I hated her, I couldn't see her doing something like that. If there was one thing I'd learned about her, it was that she was trustworthy and loyal. She might be a hateful shrew, but I didn't think she would throw me to the lions. She had worked for England Media Group since for as long as I've been around, and was a valued part of the company for a reason. Now she was only months from obtaining her MBA and would have her pick of jobs when she was ready. No way would she jeopardize that.

But I'll be damned if she didn't completely ignore me. She walked in wearing a black knee-length trench coat. It shielded whatever was beneath, but did a fantastic job showin' off those amazing legs.

Oh fuckin' hell . . . if she was wearin' those shoes, there was a good chance . . . No, not that dress. Please, for the love of God, not that dress. I knew for a fact there was no way I had the willpower for that shit today.

I glared at her as she hung her jacket in her closet and sat down at her desk.

Well, damn, that woman really was the biggest tease in the entire world.

It was the black dress. With a neckline that dipped down to accentuate the soft smooth skin of her neck and collarbone, and black fabric clingin' perfectly to those gorgeous tits, the dress was the bane of my existence, my heaven and hell wrapped in one delicious English package.

The hem fell just below her knees and it was the sexiest thing I had ever seen. It wasn't provocative in any way, but there was something about the cut and that goddamn black that had me going mental practically all day. And she always left her hair down when she wore it.

God, she pissed me off.

When she still didn't acknowledge me, I turned and stormed into my office, slamming the door behind me. Why was she still affecting me this way? I'd never had anyone or anythin' distract me from work, and I hated her for being the first. But part of me relished the memory of her victorious expression as she turned and left me gasping and practically begging her to suck me off. The girl had a spine made of steel.

I bit back a grin and focused on hating her instead.

Work. I would just focus on work and stop thinking about her. I walked over to my desk and sat down, trying to direct my attention to anything but thoughts of how amazing those lips felt around me last night.

Not conducive, Pete.

I flipped open my laptop to check my schedule for the day. My schedule . . . shit. The bitch had the most up-to-date version in her computer. Hopefully I wasn't missing any meetings this morning, because I was not calling Cunt Queen in here until I absolutely had to.

As I was going over a spreadsheet, a knock came at my door. "Come in," I called out. A white envelope was slammed down onto my desk. I looked up to see Miss Knight staring down at me with a defiantly crooked eyebrow. Without an explanation, she turned and walked out of my office.

I glared at the envelope, panicked. Likely it was a formal letter detailing my conduct and indicating her intent to file a harassment suit. I expected letterhead and her scribbled signature at the bottom of the page.

What I didn't expect was a sales receipt from an online clothing store . . . charged to the company credit card. I shot up out of the chair and raced out of my office after her. She was headed for the stairwell. Good. We were on the eighteenth floor, and nobody, besides maybe the two of us, ever used the stairs. I could scream at her all I wanted and no one would be the wiser.

The door closed with a heavy clang and her heels echoed their way down the stairs just in front of me.

"Miss Knight, where in the fuckin' hell do you think you're going?"

She continued walking without turning back to look at me. "We're out of coffee," she hissed. "So as your office girl, I'm going down to the café to retrieve some. Can't have you missing out on your caffeine fix."

How could someone so hot be such a bitch? I caught up to her on the landing between floors and grabbed her arm, pushing her against the wall. Her dark optics narrowed contemptuously at me, her teeth clenched in a hiss. I whipped the receipt up in front of her face as I glared back at her. "What is this?"

She shook her head. "You know, for such a pompous know-it-all, you really are a stupid son of a bitch sometimes. What does it look like? It's a receipt."

"I can see that," I growled through my teeth, crumpling the paper into my clenched fist. I pressed the sharp tip of it into the delicate skin just above her breast and felt my cock twitch when she gasped and her eyes dilated. "Why are you makin' clothing purchases on your company credit card?"

"Some bastard tore my blouse." She shrugged her shoulders and then leaned her face closer to me and whispered, "And my panties."

Damn it.

I took a deep breath through my nose and threw the paper to the floor, leaning forward and pressing my lips against hers and digging my fingers into her hair, pinning her body against the wall. My dick throbbed against her abdomen as I felt her hand mirror my own and grip my hair, fisting it roughly.

I pulled her dress up along her thighs and groaned into her mouth as my fingers once again found the lace edge of her thigh highs. She did this to torment me, she had to. I felt her tongue run over my lips as my fingertips brushed the warm and wet material of her panties. I clenched my hold around the fabric and gave it a rough tug.

"Make a note to order another pair then," I hissed and then pressed my tongue between her lips and into her mouth.

She groaned deeply as I thrust two fingers inside of her, and if it was possible, she was even wetter than she'd been last night. Seriously fucked-up situation we have goin' on here. She broke away from my lips with a gasp as I fucked her hard with my fingers, my thumb rubbing the taught bundle of nerves.

"Get your cock out," she said. "I need to feel you in me. Now."

I narrowed my eyes at her, trying to hide the effect her words had on me.

"Say please, Miss Knight."

"Now," she said more urgently.

"Demanding are we?"

She gave me a look that would shrivel the dick off a lesser man and I chuckled in spite of myself. Paige could hold her own.

"Good thing I'm feelin' rather generous."

I made quick work of my belt and pants before lifting her up and thrusting hard inside her. She was so slick with arousal, so tight, but able of taking inch of my length without complaints. Words escaped her lips, my hips moving of their own accord, snapping in rapid succession, until she was a whimpering mess. Christ, she felt amazing. Better than anythin'. It helped explain why I couldn't get her out of my head, and a small voice told me I might never get enough of this.

"So soaked," I mumbled.

She gasped and I felt her clench around me, her breath ragged. She bit into the shoulder of my jacket and wrapped her leg around me as I began pumping into her vigorously against the wall. Any moment someone could enter the stairwell and catch me fucking her, and I couldn't care less. I needed to get her out of my system.

The stairwell was filled with the wet sound of skin slapping against skin, and it was beautiful. She lifted her head from my shoulder and bit her way up my neck before taking my bottom lip between her teeth.

"I'm gonna come," she growled and tightened her leg around me to pull me deeper. "I'm gonna come, Pete."

Perfect.

I buried my face in her neck and hair to muffle the groan as I came hard and suddenly inside her, squeezing her ass in my hands. Pulling out before she could rub herself against me anymore, I put her down on unsteady legs.

She gaped at me, her look thunderous. The stairwell filled with a leaden silence.

"Really?" she said, exhaling loudly. Her head fell back against the wall with a dull thud.

"Thanks, that was fantastic." I found my pants down around my knees.

"You're an asshole."

"You've mentioned this," I murmured, looking down as I pulled up my zipper.

When I looked back up, she had straightened her dress, but she still looked beautifully disheveled, and part of me ached to reach forward and slide my hand against her, to make her come. But a larger part of me relished the angry dissatisfaction in her eyes. "What goes around comes around, so to speak."

"It's too bad you're such a horrible lay," she replied calmly. She turned to continue down the stairs but stopped abruptly, spinning back to meet my eye. "And it's a good thing I'm on the pill. Thanks for askin', asshole."

I watched her disappear out of sight down the stairs and growled as I walked back to my office. I landed in my chair with a loud huff, smoothing my hair before removing her destroyed panties from my pocket. I stared at the black silk fabric between my fingers for a moment, then opened my desk drawer and dropped them in to join the pair from last night.

* * *

 **A/N: Things are taking a rather interesting turn. Enjoying the ride so far? Stay tuned. Reviews are much appreciated.**


	3. Chapter Three: Okay, Time To Be Serious

Three

How the hell I made it down those stairs without killing myself is beyond me. I ran out of there like I was on fire, leaving Peter England alone in the stairwell slack jawed, clothes askew, and hair standing on end like he'd been molested.

Blowing past the café on fourteen, and clearing the final floor landing in a leap—no easy task in these shoes—I pushed open the metal door and leaned against the wall, panting.

What just happened? Did I just screw my boss on the stairs? I gasped and my hands flew over my mouth. Did I order him to? Oh, fuck. What the hell was wrong with me?

Dazed, I stumbled away from the wall and up a few flights into the closest restroom. I did a quick check under all the stalls to make sure they were empty and then turned the lock on the main door. As I approached the bathroom mirror, I winced. I looked like I'd been ridden hard and put out to dry.

My hair was an absolute nightmare. All my carefully styled waves were now a mass of wild tangles. Apparently Mr. England liked my hair down. I'd have to remember that.

Wait. What? Where the hell did that come from? I most certainly would not remember that. I slammed my fist on the counter and moved closer to inspect the damage.

My lips were swollen, my makeup smudged; my dress was stretched out and practically hanging on me, and I was once again missing my panties.

Son. Of. A. Bitch. That was the second pair. What was he doing with them, anyway?

"Oh, God!" I said, panicked. They weren't lying in a pile in the conference room somewhere, were they? Maybe he picked them up and tossed them aside? I should ask him to be sure. But no. I wouldn't give him the satisfaction of even acknowledging this . . . this . . . what was this?

I shook my head, scrubbing my face with my hands. God, I'd made a mess of things. When I came in this morning, I'd had a plan. I was going to walk in there, throw that receipt in his pretty little face, and tell him to shove it. But then he'd looked so goddamn sexy in that charcoal Prada suit, and I just lost all coherent thought. Pathetic. What was it about him that made my brain turn to mush and my panties wet.

This was not good. How was I going to face him without imagining him naked? Okay, well, not naked. I technically hadn't seen him completely undressed yet, but what I had seen caused a shiver to run through me.

Oh no. Did I just say "yet"?

I could quit. I thought about that for a minute but didn't like the way it felt. I loved my job, and England might be the world's most epic douchebag, but I'd dealt with that for nine months and—the last twenty-four hours aside—I had him figured out and could handle him like no other. And as much as I hated to admit it, I loved watching him work. He was an asshole because he was both supremely impatient and an obsessive perfectionist; he held everyone to the same standards he set for himself and didn't put up with anything but the best effort. I had to admit I'd always appreciated the expectation that I would perform better, work harder, and do whatever it took to get the job done—even if I didn't always love his methods. He really was a genius in the marketing world; his whole family was.

And that was the other thing. His family. My folks were back home in Norwich England, and when I started as a receptionist while still in college in the States, Thomas England had been so good to me. They all had. Pete's brother, Steven, was another senior executive and the nicest guy I'd ever met. I loved everyone here, so quitting was simply not an option.

The biggest issue was my scholarship. I needed to present my in-world experience to the JT Miller scholarship board before I completed my MBA, and I wanted my thesis to be a powerhouse. It's why I stayed on at England Media Group: Thomas England offered me the Levesque account—the marketing plan for the multibillionaire land developer—which was a bigger project than anything my peers were working on. Four months wasn't enough to start somewhere new and have anything good to show for it . . . was it?

No. Definitely couldn't leave England Media.

With that decided, I knew I needed a plan of action. I had to remain professional and make sure Mr. England and I never, ever happened again, even if this was by far the hottest, most intense sex I'd ever had in my life . . . even when he was withholding orgasms from me.

Asshole.

I was a strong, independent woman. I had a career to build and had worked ridiculous hours to get where I was. My mind and body were not ruled by lust. I just had to remember what a jerk he was. He was a womanizing, arrogant, pigheaded asshat who assumed everyone around him was an idiot.

I smiled at myself in the mirror and reeled through a collection of my recent Peter England memories.

"I appreciate that you got me coffee when you made your own, Miss Knight, but if I'd wanted mud to drink I would've scooped my mug through the garden soil this morning."

"If you insist on pounding your keyboard as if you're hammerin' gophers back home, Miss Knight, I'd appreciate it if you kept the door joining our offices closed."

"Is there a good reason it's takin' you so bloody long to take the contract drafts to legal? Does daydreaming about the local yanks take up all your time?"

Hell, actually, this would be easier than I thought.

Feeling a new sense of determination, I straightened my dress, smoothed my hair, and marched pantiless and confident out of the bathroom. I quickly retrieved the coffee I was after and headed back to my office, making sure to avoid the stairs.

I opened the outer office door and stepped in. The door to Mr. England's office was shut, and there was no noise coming from inside. Maybe he stepped out. Like I could get so lucky. Sitting in my chair, I pulled open my drawer and removed my cosmetic bag, fixing my makeup before getting back to work. The last thing I wanted to do was face him, but if I didn't plan on quitting, it would have to be done eventually.

When I looked through the calendar, I remembered Mr. England had a presentation before the other executives on Monday. I grimaced when I realized this meant I would have to talk to him today to prepare materials. He also had a convention in San Diego next month, which meant I would have to be not only in the same hotel as him, but in the plane, the company car, and any meetings that came up as well. No, no awkwardness there at all.

For the next hour, I found myself glancing up at his door. And each time I did, my stomach began to flutter. This was ridiculous! What was wrong with me? I shut the file I was unsuccessfully reading and dropped my head into my hands just as I heard his door open.

Mr. England walked out, not meeting my eyes. He'd straightened his clothes, slung his overcoat over his arm, and had a briefcase in hand, but his high-knot was still a crazy mess.

"I'm leaving for the rest of the day," he said, eerily calm. "Cancel my appointments and make any necessary adjustments."

"Mr. England," I said, bringing him to a stop, his hand resting on the door. "Please don't forget you have a presentation to the executive committee on Monday at ten." I spoke to his back. He stood still as a statue, his muscles tensed. "If you like, I can have the spreadsheets, portfolios, and slide materials set up in the conference room by nine thirty."

Okay, I was actually kind of enjoying this. There was nothing about his posture that communicated comfortable. He nodded curtly and started to make his way out the door when I stopped him again.

"And, Mr. England?" I added sweetly. "I need your signature on these expense reports before you leave."

His shoulders dropped and he exhaled harshly. Spinning on his heel to make his way to my desk, he never met my eyes as he leaned over and flipped through the forms to the Sign Here tabs.

I placed a pen on the desk. "Please sign where the tabs are, sir."

He hated being told to do what he was already doing, and I stifled a laugh. Snatching the pen from me, he slowly raised his chin, bringing his glacier blue hues in line with my own. Our eyes locked for what seemed like minutes, neither of us looking away. For a brief moment I had an irresistible urge to lean in and bite on his pouty bottom lip.

"Don't forward my calls," he spat out, quickly signing the last form and tossing the pen onto my desk. "If there's an emergency, contact Trent."

"Bastard," I murmured to myself as I watched him disappear.

To say my weekend sucked would be putting it mildly. I hardly ate, I hardly slept, and what little sleep I did get was interrupted by fantasies of my boss naked above me, beneath me, behind me. I almost wished for the return of classes just so I had something to distract me.

Saturday morning I awoke frustrated and crabby but managed to somehow get myself together and take care of housework and grocery shopping. Sunday morning, however, I was not so lucky. I woke with a start, panting and trembling, my body sweaty and twisted in a mass of cotton sheets. The dream I had was so intense it had actually brought me to orgasm. Mr. England and I had been on the conference table again, but this time we were both completely naked. He was on his back and I straddled him, my body sliding back and forth, up and down his cock. He touched me everywhere: along the sides of my face, down my neck, across my breasts, to my hips, where he guided my movements. I fell to pieces when our eyes met.

"Shit," I groaned as I pulled myself out of bed. This was going from bad to worse, quickly. Who would have thought working for an angry jackass would result in my getting fucked up against a cold window at work and liking it?

I started the shower, and as I waited for the water to warm, my thoughts began to drift again. I wanted to see his eyes looking up from between my legs, wanted to see his expression as he climbed on top of me, pushed into me, felt how much I wanted him. I ached to hear the sound of his voice saying my name when he came.  
My heart sank in my chest. Fantasizing about him was a one-way ticket to trouble. I was on the cusp of getting my graduate degree. He was an executive. He had nothing to lose, and I stood to lose it all.

I showered and dressed quickly to meet Daria and Mandy for brunch. Mandy and I got to see each other every day at work, but Daria, my best friend since uni, was tougher to nail down. She was a buyer for Zara Clothing and dutifully filled my closet with samples and overstock. Thanks to her and her discount, I owned some rad outfits. I still paid a pretty penny for them, but it was worth it. I made decent money at England Media, and my scholarship covered all of my school costs, but I'd sometimes wondered if Thomas paid me so well because he knew I was the only one who could handle his son. Oh, if only he knew.

I decided that it would be a bad idea to talk to the girls about what was going on. I mean, Mandy worked for Steven England and saw Pete around the building all the time. There was no way I could ask her to keep that kind of secret. Daria on the other hand would kick my ass. For almost a year she'd listened to me complain about what a dick he was, and she would not be happy to find out I was screwing him.

Two hours later I was sitting with my two best friends, drinking mimosas on the patio of our favorite restaurant, talking about men and clothes and work. Daria had surprised me with a dress made from the most sumptuous fabric I'd ever felt. It sat in a garment bag slung over the chair next to me.

"So how's work going?" Daria asked between bites of her melon. "That douche of a boss still giving you a hard time, Saraya?"

"Oh, Beautiful Bastard." Mandy sighed, and I carefully studied the condensation on my champagne flute. She popped a grape into her mouth and spoke around it.

"God, you should see him, Daria. It's the most perfect nickname I've ever heard. He is a god. And I mean that. There's nothing wrong with him, physically. The face, body, clothes, hair . . . Oh, God, the hair. He's got that artfully arranged man bun," she said, motioning above her head. "Looks like he just wants to bang the hell out of someone."

I rolled my eyes. I never needed a reminder about the hair.

"But—and I don't know what 'Raya has told you—he really is awful," Mandy continued, growing serious. "I mean, I wanted to shove a pocket knife into each of his tires within the first fifteen minutes of meeting him. He is the biggest dick I've ever met."

I almost choked on a piece of pineapple. If Mandy only knew. Truly, the man was blessed in the man-parts department. It was unfair.

"Why is he such a jerk?"

"Who knows?" Mandy said, and then blinked away as if she was really considering whether he had a good excuse. "Maybe he had a hard childhood?"

"Have you met his family?" I asked, skeptical. "Hello, Norman Rockwell."

"True," she conceded. "Maybe it's some sort of defense mechanism. Like, he's bitter and feels like he has to work harder and prove himself to everyone all the time because he's so damn pretty?"

I snorted. "There isn't a deep reason. He thinks everyone should care as much and work as hard as he does, and most people don't. It pisses him off."

"Are you defending him, 'Raya?" Mandy asked with a surprised grin.

"Definitely not."

I noticed Daria's hazel eyes were trained on me and had narrowed in silent accusation. I'd done my share of complaining about my boss in the past several months, but maybe I'd never mentioned that he was gorgeous?

"'Raya, have you been holding out on the truth? Is your boss a hot piece?" she asked.

"He is gorgeous, but his personality makes it pretty hard to appreciate." I tried to be as nonchalant as I could. Daria had a way of reading every thought I had.

"Well," she said, shrugging her shoulders and taking a long sip of her drink, "maybe he's pissed off because he's got a tiny dick."

I tipped back my champagne flute as my two friends howled in fits of laughter.

Monday morning, I was a bundle of nerves as I made my way into the building. I'd made my decision: I wasn't going to sacrifice my job because of our lack of judgment. I wanted to finish this position with a stellar presentation for the scholarship board and then leave and start my career. No more sex, no more fantasizing. I could easily work—business only—with Mr. England for another few months.

Feeling the need for a boost of confidence, I wore the new dress Daria had given me. It hugged my curves without looking too provocative. But my secret confidence weapon was my underwear. I'd always had a thing for expensive lingerie, and early on had learned where to hunt for the best sales. Wearing something sexy under my clothes was empowering, and the pair I had on would most certainly do the trick. I could take whatever Mr. England had to say today, and I could dish it right back to him.

I'd arrived early to have time to prepare for the presentation. It wasn't strictly my job, but Mr. England refused to have a dedicated assistant, and when left to his own devices, he was a disaster at making meetings pleasant: no coffee, no pastries, just a room full of people, pristine slides and handouts, and, as always, endless work.

The lobby was empty; the wide space opened three stories up and gleamed with polished granite flooring and travertine walls. As the elevator doors closed behind me, I gave myself a mental pep talk, recounting all the arguments we'd had and the jackass comments he'd made.

"Type, don't write anything longhand. Your handwriting looks like that of a child's, Miss Knight."

"If I wanted to enjoy your entire conversation with your graduate advisor, I'd leave my office door open and get some popcorn. Please, keep your voice down."

I could do this. That bastard had picked the wrong bitch to mess with, and I'd be damned if I would let him intimidate me. I lowered my hand to my ass and smiled wickedly . . . power panties.

As I expected, the office was still empty when I arrived. I gathered everything he would need for his presentation and headed to the conference room to set up. I tried to ignore the Pavlovian response I had to seeing the wall of windows, the gleaming conference table.

Stop it, body. Engage now, brain.

Glancing around the sun-filled room, I set the files and laptop on the large conference table and helped the catering staff set up the breakfast spread along the back wall.

Twenty minutes later the proposals were set out, the projector was prepared, and refreshments were ready. With time to spare I found myself wandering over to the window. I reached out and touched the smooth glass, overwhelmed by the sensations it brought; the heat of his body against my back, the feel of the cool glass against my breast, and the raw animalistic sound of his voice in my ear.

"Ask me to make you come."

I closed my eyes and leaned in, pressing my palms and forehead against the window, and let the power of the memories overtake me.

I was startled from my fantasy by a throat clearing behind me. "Daydreaming on the clock?"

"Mr. England," I gasped, spinning around. Our eyes locked and I was once again struck by how beautiful he was. He broke eye contact to survey the room.

"Miss Knight," he said, each word sharp and clipped. "I'll be giving the presentation on the fourth floor.

"Excuse me?" I asked, irritation flooding me. "Why? We always use this room. And why did you wait until the last minute to tell me?"

"Because," he growled, leaning on his fists on the table, "I am the boss. I make the rules, and I decide when and where things happen. Maybe if you weren't intent on staring out windows, you would have taken the time this morning to come confirm the details with me."

My mind flooded with white-hot images of my fist connecting with his throat. It took every bit of control I had not to jump across the table and strangle him. A faint smirk crept over his face.

"Fine by me," I said, swallowing my annoyance. "No good decisions are ever made in this room anyway."

When I turned the corner into the new conference room, my eyes immediately met Mr. England's. Sitting in his chair, his hands predictably tented in front of him, he was the portrait of barely contained patience. Typical.

Then I noticed the person beside me: Thomas England.

"Here, let me help you with that, 'Raya," he said, taking a stack of folders from my arms so I could more easily maneuver the cart full of food into the room.

"Thank you, Mr. England." I shot a pointed look at my boss.

"'Raya," the elder Mr. England said, laughing. He took some handouts and sent the stack around the table for the attendees to take. "How many times do I need to tell you to call me Thomas?" He was every bit as handsome as both of his sons. Tall and muscular, all three England men shared the same chiseled features. Thomas's salt-and-pepper hair had turned silver over the years since I'd first met him, but he was still one of the most handsome men I'd ever met.

I smiled gratefully at him as I sat down. "How is Jean doing?"

"She's doing just grand. She keeps nagging me about havin' you over," he added with a wink. It didn't escape my attention that the youngest Mr. England snorted in annoyance beside me.

"Please tell her I said hi."

Footsteps sounded behind me and a hand reached out to gently tug my ear. "Hey, lass," Steven England said, giving me a wide grin. He turned to address the rest of the room. "Sorry I'm late. I guess I thought we were meeting up on your floor."

I chanced a smug look out of the corner of my eye, meeting my boss' gaze. The stack of handouts came back to me and I handed a copy to him. "Here you are, Mr. England."

Without so much as a glance, he snatched the stack and began leafing through them.

Dick.

Just as I was taking my seat, Steven's boisterous voice called out, "Oh, Saraya, while I was up there waiting, I found these on the floor." I walked over to him and saw two antiqued silver buttons sitting in his palm. "Would you ask around and see if anyone's lost these? They look kind of expensive."

I felt my face heat. I had completely forgotten about my ruined shirt. "Um . . . sure."

"Steven, can I see those for a minute?" Jackass suddenly chimed in, taking them from his brother. He turned to me with a wicked smirk in place. "Don't you have a blouse with buttons like these?"

I glanced quickly around the room; Steven and Thomas were already absorbed in another conversation, oblivious to what was happening between us.

"No," I said, trying to sound as disinterested as possible. "I don't."

"Are you sure?" Taking my hand, he ran a finger from the inside of my arm to my palm before dropping the buttons and closing my hand around them. My breath caught in my throat and my heart pounded fiercely against my chest.

I jerked my hand back as if I'd been burned. "I'm sure."

"I could have sworn the blouse you wore the other day had little silver buttons. The grey one? I remember because I noticed one of them was loose when you came looking for me upstairs."

If possible, I felt my face heat further. What was he playing at? Was he trying to insinuate that I had orchestrated a way to get him alone in the conference room?

Leaning in closely, his breath hot on my ear, he whispered, "You really should try to be more careful."

I attempted to maintain my calm as I lowered my hand from his. "You bastard," I replied through gritted teeth before he pulled away, looking taken aback.

How could he look surprised, as if I'd been the one to break the rules? It was one thing to be a dick to me, but to jeopardize my reputation in front of other executives—he was going to get an earful later.

Throughout the meeting we cast glances at each other, mine fueled with anger and his with increasing uncertainty. I looked down at the spreadsheets in front of me as much as possible to avoid looking at him.


	4. Chapter Four: Nevermind

**A/N: A little smutty.**

Four

As soon as it was all over, I gathered my things and got the hell out of there. But as expected, he was hot on my tail all the way to the elevator until we were both seething silently in the back, on our way up to the office.

Why wouldn't this thing hurry the hell up, and why did someone on every floor decide they needed to use it now? People all around us were talking on phones, shuffling files, discussing lunch plans. The noise grew to a heavy buzz, nearly drowning out the verbal ass-kicking I was giving Mr. England in my head. By the time we reached the eleventh floor, the elevator was almost at capacity. When the door opened and three more people decided to squeeze in, I was pushed farther into him, my back against his chest and my ass against his . . . oh.

I felt the rest of his body stiffen subtly and heard him take a sharp breath. Instead of pressing into him, I stepped as far away as I could. He reached forward and gripped my hip, pulling me back again.

"I liked that arse against me," he murmured, low and warm into my ear.

"Where do you—I'm two seconds away from castrating you with my heel."

He leaned even closer. "Why are you suddenly more pissy than usual?"

I turned my head and said, in barely a whisper, "It would be just like you to make me look like a career-climbing whore in front of your father."

He dropped his hand, slack jawed. "No." Blink. Blink. "What?" Confused Mr. England was surprisingly hot. Bastard. "I was teasin'."

"What if they'd heard you?"

"They didn't."

"They could have."

He genuinely looked like the thought had never occurred to him, and it probably hadn't. It was easy for him to play games from his perch at the top. He was the workaholic executive. I was the girl halfway up the ladder.

The person on our left glanced over and we both stood straight, looked forward. I elbowed him sharply in the side, and he pinched my ass hard enough to make me gasp.

"I won't apologize," he said under his breath.

Of course you won't. Dick.

He pressed into me again, and I felt the length of him grow even harder, the traitor warmth spreading between my legs.

We reached the fifteenth floor and a few more people filed out. I reached behind me, slid my hand between us, and palmed him. He exhaled a warm puff against my neck, whispering, "Fuck yes."

And then I squeezed.

"Fuck. 'M sorry!" he hissed into my ear. I let go, dropping my hand and grinning to myself. "Christ, woman."

The sixteenth floor. The rest of the crowd exited in a single rush, apparently headed to the same meeting.

As soon as the doors closed and the elevator began to move, I heard a growl from behind me and caught a quick, sudden movement as Mr. England slammed his hand against the stop button on the control panel. His eyes turned on me and they were darker than I had ever seen them. In one fluid motion, he pinned me against the wall of the elevator with his body. He pulled away just long enough to give me an angry glare and mutter, "Don't move."

And even though I wanted to tell him to fuck off, my body begged me to do whatever he said.

Reaching over to my discarded files, he plucked a sticky note off the top and placed it over the camera lens set into the ceiling.

His face was only a couple of inches from mine, his breath coming out in sharp bursts against my cheek. "I would never imply you're tryin' to fuck your way to the top." He exhaled, bending into my neck. "You're thinking too much."

I pulled back as much as I could, gaping at him. "You're not thinking enough. This is my career we're talking about. You have all of the power here. You have nothing to lose."

"I have the power? You're the one who pressed into my dick in the elevator. You're the one doing this to me."

I felt my expression soften; I wasn't used to seeing him be vulnerable with me, even a little. "Then don't blindside me."

After a long pause, he nodded.

The sound of the building all around us filled the elevator as we continued to stare at each other. The ache for contact began to build, first in my navel and spreading lower, between my legs.

He bent forward, licking my jaw before covering my lips with his, and an involuntary groan rumbled in my throat as his hardened cock pressed against my stomach. My body began acting on instinct and my leg wrapped around his, pressing me closer against his arousal, my hands finding their way to his hair. He pulled back just long enough for his fingers to flick at the clasp at my waist. My dress drifted apart in front of him.

"Such an angry little kitten," he whispered.

Placing his hands on my shoulders, he looked into my eyes and slid the fabric to the floor. Goose bumps spread along my skin as he took my hands, turned me around, and pressed my palms against the wall.

Taking my hair in his hands, he roughly pulled my head to the side, giving him access to my neck. Hot, wet kisses rained down my spine and across my shoulders. His touch left a spark of electricity over every inch of skin he touched. On his knees behind me, he grabbed my ass and pressed his sharp teeth into the flesh, eliciting a sharp gasp from me before he stood back up.

Holy hell, how does he know to do these things to me?

"Did you like that?" His fingers pressed and pulled at my breasts. "Being bitten on the arse?"

"Maybe."

"You're such a filthy fuckin' girl."

I yelped out in surprise as I felt his hand smack hard where his teeth had just been, and my only response was a moan of pleasure. I breathed in another sharp gasp as his hands clasped the delicate ribbons of my underwear and ripped it off.

"Expect another bill, asshole."

He chuckled darkly and pressed up against me again, the cool wall against my breasts sending shivers through my body and pulling forward the memory of the window that first time. I'd forgotten how good the contrast—cold versus warm, hard versus him—felt against me.

"Worth every penny." His hand slid around my waist and down my abdomen, slipping lower until his finger rested on my clit. "You know, I'm beginning to think you wear those things just to tease me."

Was he right? Was I delusional, thinking they were for me?

The pressure from his touch caused me to ache, his fingers pressing and releasing, leaving me wanting. Moving lower, he stopped right at my entrance. "You're so wet. God, you must have been thinking about this all morning. So desperate for me to fuck you."

"Fuck you," I groaned, gasping as his finger finally pushed inside, pressing me back into him.

"Say it. Say it and I'll give you what you want." A second finger joined the first, and the sensation caused me to cry out.

I shook my head, but my body betrayed me again. He sounded so needy; his words were teasing and controlling, but it felt like he was begging too. I closed my eyes, trying to clear my thoughts, but everything was just too much. The feel of his clothed body against my naked skin, the sound of his rough voice, and the feeling of his long fingers plunging in and out of me had me teetering on the edge. His other hand reached up, firmly pinching my nipple through the sheer fabric of my bra, and I moaned loudly. I was so close.

"Say it," he grunted into my ear as his thumb rolled over my clit. "I won't have you angry with me all day."

I gave in, finally, whispering, "I want you inside me." He let out a low, strangled moan and his forehead rested on my shoulder as he began moving faster, plunging and circling. His hips ground against my ass, his erection rubbing against me. "Oh, God," I moaned, the coil tightening deep inside, my every thought focused on the pleasure begging to break free.

And then the rhythmic sounds of our panting and groans were suddenly interrupted by the shrill ringing of a phone.

We stilled as the realization of where we were crashed down on us. Mr. England cursed as he moved away from me and took the elevator's emergency receiver. Turning, I grabbed my dress, slipped it over my shoulders, and began fastening it with shaking hands.

"Yes." He sounded so calm, not even a little out of breath. Our eyes locked across the elevator. "I see . . . No, we're fine . . ."

He bent over slowly, removing my torn and discarded panties from the elevator floor.

"No, it just stopped." He listened to the person on the other end, while rubbing the silky fabric between his fingers. "That's fine." He finished, hanging up the phone.

The elevator jerked as it began ascending again. He looked down at the lace in his hand and then back to me. And then he smirked, stepping away from the wall and stalking toward me. Placing one hand next to my head, he leaned in, running his nose along my neck and whispering, "You smell as good as you feel."

A small gasp escaped me.

"And these," he said, motioning to my panties in his hand, "are mine."

The elevator chimed as we stopped at our floor. The doors opened and without a single glance back in my direction, he slipped the delicate fabric into the pocket of his suit jacket and strode out.


	5. Chapter Five: The Games We Play

**A/N: Previous chapter was a bit short so made up for that here. Keep in mind this is an humor/erotic fic so you know the drill.**

* * *

Five

Panic. The emotion gripping me as I all but sprinted to my office could only be described as pure panic. I couldn't believe what was happening. Being alone with her in that tiny steel prison—her smell, her sounds, her skin—made my self-control evaporate. I was unraveling. This woman had a hold on me unlike anythin' I'd ever experienced.

Finally in the relative safety of my office, I collapsed on the leather sofa. Leaning forward, I gripped my hair tightly, willing myself to calm and my erection to subside.

Things were going from bad to worse.

I'd known from the minute she reminded me of the morning's meeting that there was no way in hell I could form one coherent thought, let alone give an entire presentation in that fuckin' conference room. And forget sitting at that table.

Walking in there to find her leaning up against the glass, deep in thought, was enough to make me hard again.

I'd made up some bullshit story about the meeting being moved to a different floor, and of course she called me on it. Why did she always have to antagonize me? I made a point of reminding her of who was in charge. But as with every other argument we'd ever had, she threw it right back in my face.

I jumped slightly at a loud thud in the outside office. Followed by another one. And yet another. What the hell was going on out there? I stood and made my way to the door, opening it to find Miss Knight slamming down her folders in different piles. I folded my arms and leaned against the wall, watching her for a moment. The sight of her so angry was not diminishing the problem in my trousers in the slightest.

"Would you mind tellin' me what your problem is?"

She looked up at me as if I'd sprouted an extra head. "Are you out of your mind?"

"Not even a little."

"Pardon me if I feel a touch edgy," she hissed, grabbing a stack of folders and roughly shoving them into a drawer.

"I'm not exactly thrilled with the—"

"Pete," my father said, walking briskly into my office. "Great job in there. Steven and I just spoke with Linda and Vince and they were—" He stopped and stared at where Miss Knight stood, white-knuckling the edge of her desk.

"'Raya, dear, are you okay?"

She straightened and stretched her fingers, nodding. Her face was beautifully flushed, her hair a little wild. From me. I swallowed and turned to look out the window.

"You don't look well," dad said, walking to her and putting his hand on her forehead. "You're hot."

I clenched my jaw as I watched their reflection in the glass, a strange feeling clawing its way up my spine. Where is this coming from?

"Actually," she said, "I do feel a smidge off."

"Well, you should head home. With your work schedule and havin' just finished the semester at school, no doubt you're—"

"We have a full calendar today, I'm afraid," I said, turning to face them. "I was expecting to finish Levesque, Miss Knight," I growled through clenched teeth.

My father turned his steely gaze on me.

"I'm sure you can handle whatever needs to be done, Pete." He turned back to her. "You go on ahead."

"Thank you, Thomas." She looked at me, arching a perfectly sculpted brow. "See ya' tomorrow morning, Mr. England."

I watched her walk out and my father closed the door behind her, turning to look at me with fire in his eyes.

"What?" I asked.

"It wouldn't kill you to be a little nicer, Peter." He moved forward and sat on the corner of her desk. "You're lucky to have her, y'know."

I rolled my eyes and shook my head. "If her personality were as appealin' as her PowerPoint skills, we wouldn't have a problem."

He cut me off with a glare. "Ya' mother called and told me to remind you about dinner tonight at the house. Steven and Mina are comin' over with the baby."

"I'll be there."

He made his way over to the door, stopping to look back at me. "Don't be late."

"I won't." He knew as well as anyone that I don't show up late for anythin', even something as simple as a family dinner. Steven, on the other hand, would be late to his own funeral.

Finally alone, I stepped back into my office and collapsed into my chair. Okay, so maybe I was a little on edge.

I reached into my pocket and pulled out what remained of her underwear, ready to discard them into my drawer with the others, when I noticed the tag. Agent Provocateur. She dropped a pretty penny on these. And it sparked my curiosity. I opened the drawer to examine the other two pair. La Perla. Damn, this woman was serious about her underwear. Perhaps I should stop into the La Perla store downtown sometime and at least see how much my little collection was costing her. I ran my free hand on my hair and tossed them all back in the drawer slamming it shut.

I was officially out of my mind.

* * *

As hard as I tried, I couldn't focus on a damn thing all day. Even after a vigorous lunchtime run, I still couldn't get my mind past the morning's events. By three, I knew I had to get out of there. I reached the elevator and groaned slightly, opting for the stairs and then realizing that was an even worse mistake. I sprinted down eighteen flights.

Pulling up to my parents' home later that evening, I felt some of my tension slip away. As I walked into the kitchen, I was immediately engulfed by the familiar smell of Mum's cooking, and my parents' happy chatter coming from the dining room.

"Peter," my mum sang as I stepped into the room. I bent down and kissed her cheek, allowing her a brief moment to try and fix my hair. Finally swatting her hands away, I grabbed a large bowl from her and placed it on the table, snatching a carrot as commission. "Where's Steven?" I asked, looking out toward the living room.

"They're not here yet," answered my dad as he walked in. Steven was bad enough, but throw in his wife and daughter and they were lucky to even make it out of the house at all. I walked to the bar outside to make my mother a dry martini.

Twenty minutes later, the sounds of chaos came from the foyer, and I stepped in to meet them. A small, unstable body with a toothy grin hurled itself at my knees.

"Uncle Pete!" the little girl squealed.

I snatched Sofia up and smothered her cheeks with kisses.

"God, you're pathetic," Steven groaned as he walked past me.

"Sod off, wanker."

"You should both shut up, if anyone wants my opinion," Mina added, following her husband into the dining room.

Sofia was the first grandchild and the princess of the family. As usual, she preferred to sit on my lap during dinner and I tried to eat around her, doing my best to avoid her "help." She definitely had me completely wrapped around her finger.

"Pete, I've been meaning to ask you," my mother began, handing me the bottle of wine. "Would you invite Saraya to dinner next week, and do your best to convince her to actually come?"

I groaned in response and received a quick kick in the shin from my father.

"Christ. Why is everyone so insistent on gettin' her over here?" I asked.

Mum straightened, wearing her best Firm Mother face. "She's in a strange city all alone, and—"

"Mum," I interrupted, "she's lived here since college. She's twenty-six. It's not a strange city to her anymore."

"Actually, Peter, you're right," she answered with a rare edge in her voice. "She came here for college, graduated summa cum laude, worked with your father for a few years before moving to your department and being the best employee you've ever had—all while she attends night school to get her degree. I think Saraya is pretty amazing, so I have someone I'd like her to meet."

My fork froze in midair as those words sank in. Mum wanted to set her up with someone? I tried to mentally file through all of the single men we knew and had to discount each of them immediately. Brad: too short. Damian: fucks anythin' that moves. Kyle: gay. Scott: dumb. Well, this was odd. I felt something constrict in my chest, but I wasn't sure what it was. If I had to put a name on it, I'd call it . . . anger?

Why would I be angry that my mum wanted to set her up? Probably because you're sleepin' with her, fool. Well, not really sleeping with her so much as fucking her. Okay, fucked her . . . twice. "Fuckin' her" would imply an intent to continue.

Oh, also, I felt her up her in an elevator and was hoarding her shredded panties in my desk drawer.

Sick.

I pressed my hands to my face. "Fine. I'll talk to her. But don't get your hopes up. She's about as charm-free as they come, so that's a hard deal to close."

"Y'know, Petey-boy," my brother chimed in, "I think everyone here would agree that you're literally the only one who has a hard time gettin' along with her."

I looked around the table, frowning at the heads bobbing up and down, agreeing with my twat of a brother.

The rest of the night consisted of more talk about how I needed to try and be nicer to Miss Knight, and about how great they all thought she was, and about how much she would like my mum's best mate's son, Colby Lopez. I had completely forgotten about Colby. He was nice enough, I guess. The lad was athletic, owned his own clothing company, took an interest in charity events, and loved just any music involving the electric guitar.

We also talked about the meetings we had lined up for this week. A big one was planned for Thursday afternoon, and I would be accompanying my father and brother. I knew that Miss Knight already had everythin' all planned and ready to go. Much as I hated to admit it, she was always two steps ahead and anticipated everythin' I needed.

I left with the promise that I would do my best to convince her to come, although to be honest I didn't even know when I would see her in the next few days. I had meetings and appointments all over the city, and I doubted that in those brief moments I was actually in the office I would have much good to say.

Glaring out the window as we crawled in traffic afternoon, I wondered if my day would ever improve. I hated sitting in traffic. The office was only a couple blocks away, and I was seriously considering just having the driver take the car back and getting out and walking. It was already after four, and we'd managed to travel only three blocks in twenty minutes. Perfect. Closing my eyes, I rested my head on the seat and recalled the meeting I had just left.

Nothing in particular had gone wrong; in fact, quite the opposite. The clients had been thrilled with our proposals, and everything had gone off without a hitch. I just couldn't shake my horrible mood.

Steven had made a point of telling me every fifteen minutes of the last three hours that I was behaving like a moody teenager, and by the time the contracts were signed, I wanted to deck the shit out of him. Every chance he got he asked what the hell my problem was, and frankly, I couldn't say I blamed him. Even I had to admit I'd been a prick the last couple of days. And for me, that was saying something. Of course Steven declared as he left to head home that my problem was I needed to get laid.

If he only knew.

* * *

It had been one day. Just one day since the event in the elevator left me rock hard and with an itching desire to touch every inch of her skin. The way I was acting you'd think I hadn't had sex in six months. But no, nearly two days of not touching her and I felt like a lunatic.

The car stopped again and I thought I would scream. My driver lowered the separator between the front and back seats, tossing me an apologetic smile. "Sorry, Mr. England. I'm sure you're going crazy back there. We're only six blocks away; would you rather walk?" Glancing out the tinted windows, I noticed we'd stopped right across the street from La Perla. "I can pull over just—"

I was out of the car before he had a chance to finish his sentence.

Standing on the curb waiting to cross, it occurred to me that I didn't have a clue what point there would be to going inside. What was I planning on doing? Was I buying something or just torturing myself?  
I stepped into the store and stopped in front of a long table covered with frilly lingerie. The floors were a warm honey wood, the ceilings littered with long cylindrical light fixtures, clustered into groups throughout the large room. The dim lighting cast the entire space in a soft intimate glow, illuminating the tables and racks of expensive lingerie. Something about the delicate lace and satin brought on that all-too-familiar desire for her.

Running my fingers along a table set near the front of the store, I became aware that I had already garnered the attention of the sales staff. A tall blonde walked toward me.

"Welcome to La Perla," she said, looking me up and down like a lion eyeing a steak. It occurred to me that a woman in this business would know how much I paid for my suit, and that my cuff links were real diamonds. Her eyes practically turned into flashing dollar signs. "Is there something I can help you find today? Maybe a gift for your wife? Your girlfriend perhaps?" she added, a hint of flirtation in her voice.

"No, thank you," I answered, suddenly feeling ridiculous for even being here. "I'm just lookin'."

"Well, if you change your mind, let me know," she said with a wink, before turning and making her way back to the sales counter. I watched her walk away and was immediately disgusted that I hadn't even considered getting her number. Fuck. I wasn't a complete manwhore, but a beautiful woman in a lingerie store, of all places, had just flirted with me and it hadn't even occurred to me to flirt back. What the bloody hell was wrong with me?

I was just about to turn and leave when something caught my eye. I let my fingers run across the black lace garter belt hanging on a rack. I hadn't realized women really wore these outside of Playboy photo shoots until I'd started working with her. I remembered a meeting our first month working together. She had crossed her legs beneath the table and shifted in just the right way that her skirt rode up, revealing the delicate red strap attached to her stockings. It was the first time I'd seen evidence of her penchant for lingerie, but it wasn't the first time I'd had to spend the lunch hour beating off in my office thinking about her.

"See somethin' you like?"

I turned, startled to hear a familiar accented voice behind me.

Shit.

Miss Knight.

But I'd never really seen her like this before. She looked stylish as always, but completely casual. She was wearing dark fitted jeans and a black tank top. Her hair was in a sexy ponytail, the light makeup she wore made her look no younger than twenty-one.

"What the hell are you doing here?" she asked, her fake smile slipping from her face.

"How is that any of your business?"

"Just curious. You don't have enough of my underwear that you have to start a collection of your own?" She glared at me, motioning to the garter belt still in my hands.

I let go of it quickly. "No, no, I—"

"What exactly do you do with them, anyway? Do you have them tucked away somewhere like little mementos of your conquests?" She folded her arms across her chest, causing her breasts to push together. My eyes fell straight to her cleavage and my dick stirred in my pants.

"Jesus," I said, shaking my head. "Why must you be such a bitch all the time?" I could feel the adrenaline trickling into my veins, feel my muscles tensing as I literally shook with lust and rage.

"I guess you just bring out the best in me," she said. She was leaning forward, her chest nearly touching mine. Looking around, I noticed we were drawing attention from the other people in the store.

"Look," I said, trying to compose myself.

"How about you calm down and lower your voice." I knew I had to get out of here soon, before something happened. For some sick reason, fighting with this woman always ended with her panties in my pocket. "What are you doing here anyway? Why aren't you at work?"

She rolled her eyes. "I've been working for you for almost a year, so you'd think you'd remember that I check in with my advisor every other week. I just finished and wanted to do some shopping. Maybe you need to put an ankle bracelet on me so you can creepily stalk me full time. Though, hey, you managed to find me here without one."

I glared at her, struggling to find something to say. "You're always so fuckin' bitchy with me."

Nice one, Pete. Really clever.

"Come with me," she said, and grabbed hold of my arm, dragging me to the back of the store. She pulled me around a corner and into a dressing room. She had obviously been here awhile; there were piles of lingerie on the chairs and hangers full of unidentifiable scraps of lace. Music was being piped through overhead speakers, and I was glad I wouldn't have to worry about keeping my voice down as I strangled her.

Closing the large mirrored door opposite a silk-covered chaise, she stood with her eyes locked on mine. "Did you follow me here?"

"Why the hell would I do that?"

"So you just happened to be browsing around a women's lingerie store. Just some pervy thing you do in your spare time?"

"Please do not flatter yourself, Miss Knight."

"You know, it's a good thing you've got that big dick to make up for that mouth of yours."

I found myself leaning forward, muttering, "I'm pretty sure you'd be thrilled with my mouth too."

Suddenly everything felt too intense, too loud, too vivid. Her chest was heaving, and her gaze shifted to my mouth as she bit her bottom lip. Slowly grabbing the collar of my jacket, she pulled me to her. I opened my mouth, feeling her soft tongue press forward.

I couldn't pull back now, and slid one hand to her jaw and the other up to her hair. I removed the hair bobble holding her ponytail and soft black waves fell around my hand. I fisted the mass tightly, jerking her head to better accommodate my mouth. I needed more. I needed all of her. She moaned and I pulled it tighter. "You like that."

"God, yes."

At that moment, hearing those words, I didn't care about anything else: where we were, who we were, or how we felt about each other. Never in my life had I felt such raw chemistry with anyone. When we were together like this, nothing else mattered.

My hands ran down her sides and I gripped the hem of her shirt, bringing it up and over her head, breaking our kiss for only a second. Not to be left behind, she pushed my jacket from my shoulders and it dropped to the floor.

My thumbs ran circles across her skin as I moved my hands to the waist of her jeans. Quickly undone, they fell to the floor, and she kicked them off along with her sandals. I kissed down her neck and shoulders.

"Damn," I growled. Looking up I could see her perfect body reflected back at me in the full-length mirror. I had fantasized about her undressed more times than I could probably admit, but reality, in daylight, was better. So much better. She was wearing sheer black panties that only covered half her ass, and a matching bra, her hair spilling down across her back. The muscles in her long, pale toned legs flexed as she pushed up on her toes to reach my neck. The visual, along with the feeling of her lips, made my dick push painfully against the confines of my trousers.

She bit my ear hard as her hands went to the buttons of my shirt. "I think you like it rough too."

I undid my trousers and belt, pushing them and my briefs to the floor, and then pulled her with me to the chaise.

A thrill shot through me as my hands moved around her ribs to the clasp of her bra. Her breasts pressed against me as if urging me on, and I kissed along her neck as my fingers quickly unhooked her bra and I slipped the straps from her shoulders. I pulled back slightly to allow the garment to fall and for the first time took in the full view of her breasts completely bared to me. The artwork permanently etched just below her breasts added to her. Fucking perfect. In my fantasies I'd done everything to them: touched them, kissed them, sucked them, fucked them, but nothing compared to the reality of just staring at them.

Her hips rolled over me, and nothing but her tiny panties separated us. I buried my face in her chest and her hands ran through my hair, pulling me closer.

"You want to taste me?" she whispered, staring down at me. She pulled my hair hard enough to yank my head away from her skin.

I had no smart-ass remark, nothing biting to get her to stop talking and just fuck me. I did want to taste her skin. I wanted it more than I think I'd ever wanted anything.

"Yes."

"Ask nicely, then."

"Fuck asking nicely. Let me go."

She whimpered, leaning forward to let me suck a perfect nipple into my mouth, causing her to pull harder on my hair.

Damn that felt good.

So many thoughts ran through my mind. There was nothing in this world I wanted more than to bury myself in her, but I knew when it was over, I would hate us both. Her for making me weak, and myself for allowing lust to override my common sense. But I also knew I couldn't stop. I had turned into a junkie, living for my next fix. My perfectly constructed life was crashing around me and all I cared about was feeling her.

Sliding my hands down her sides, I let my fingers run along the waist of her underwear. A shiver went through her, and I closed my eyes tightly as I bound the material in my hand, willing myself to stop.

"Go ahead and rip them . . . you know you want to," she murmured into my ear and then bit down hard. A half-second later, her panties were nothing but a mess of lace in the corner of the room. Grabbing her hips roughly, I lifted her and held the base of my dick with the other hand, and pulled her down onto me.

The feeling was so intense that I had to forcefully still her hips to keep from exploding. If I lost it now, she would only throw it back in my face later. And I wouldn't give her the satisfaction.

Once I felt in control again, I began moving her hips. We hadn't been in this position yet—her on top, face-to-face—and even though I hated to admit it, our bodies fit together perfectly. Bringing my hands down her hips to her legs, I gripped one in each hand and wrapped them around my waist. The change of position brought me deeper inside her, and I buried my face in her neck to keep from groaning out loud.

I was aware of the sounds of voices all around us as people entered and left the other dressing rooms. The thought that we could get caught at any moment only made this better.

Her back arched as she stifled a moan, and her head fell back. The deceptively innocent way she bit her lip was driving me crazy. Once again I found myself looking over her shoulder, to watch us in the mirror. I had never seen anything so erotic in my entire life.

She pulled my hair once again, guiding my mouth back to hers, our tongues gliding together, matching the motion of our hips. "You look so good over me," I whispered into her mouth. "Turn around, you need to see something." I pulled her up and turned her to face the mirror. With her back against my chest, she lowered herself back onto me.

"Oh, God," she said. She breathed out heavily as her head fell back against my shoulder, and I was unsure if it was from the feeling of me inside her or the image reflected in the mirror. Or both.

I gripped her hair and forced her head back up, "No, I want you to look right there," I growled in her ear, meeting her gaze in the mirror. "I want you to watch. And tomorrow when you're sore, I want you to remember who did it to you."

"Stop talking," she said, but she shivered and I knew she loved every word. Her hands ran up her body and behind her until they dug into my hair.

I touched every inch of her body and I trailed biting kisses along the back of her shoulders. In the mirror I could see myself sliding in and out of her; and as much as I didn't want these memories in my head, I knew that was a sight I would never forget. I moved one hand down to her clit.

"Oh, shit," she whispered. "Please."

"Like this?" I asked, pressing, circling.

"Yes, please, more, please, please."

Our bodies were now covered in a thin sheen of sweat, leaving her hair sticking slightly to her forehead.

Her gaze never left when my thrusts grew more frantic. We came together as we continued to move against each other, and I knew we were both close. I wanted her to meet my eyes in the mirror—and then immediately knew it would show her too much. I didn't want her to see so plainly what she was doing to me.

The voices around us continued, completely unaware of what was going on in this tiny room. If I didn't do something, our little secret would not be kept for long. As her movements became more frenzied and her hands gripped my hair tighter and tighter, I pressed my hand against her mouth, stifling her scream as she came apart around me.

I muffled my own moans against her shoulder and with a few more thrusts, I exploded deep inside her. Her body slumped into me as I leaned back against the wall.

I needed to get up. I needed to get up and dress, but I didn't think my shaky legs could carry me. Any hope I'd had that the sex would become less intense, and that I would get over this obsession, was quickly being crushed.

Reason was slowly beginning to seep back into my consciousness, along with the disappointment that I had once again succumbed to this weakness. I shifted her up and off my lap before bending to reach for my briefs.

When she turned and looked at me, I expected hatred or indifference, but there was something vulnerable in her eyes before they snapped shut and she looked away. We both dressed in silence; the fitting room area suddenly seemed too quiet and too small, and I was overly aware of each breath she took.

Straightening my tie, I picked up the torn panties from the floor, depositing them in my pocket. I went to grab the door handle and stopped. Reaching out, I ran my hands slowly along the lacy fabric hanging from one of the hooks on the wall.

I met her eyes and said, "Get the garter belt too." And without looking back, I walked out of the dressing room.


End file.
